


Even the Stars Go Right Over Our Head

by theshipsfirstmate



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 4am fic, F/M, Kidnapping, Torture, season 4 spec, souffle spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipsfirstmate/pseuds/theshipsfirstmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 4 spec ficlet, another (slightly angst-ier) way those souffles might turn out.</p><p>"He’s been gone for nearly four full days when Felicity breaks the promise she made to herself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even the Stars Go Right Over Our Head

_A/N: Yet another proposal spec, but this one's a little angsty. Title from “[What This World is Coming To”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXElWgsMpvc) by Nate Ruess and Beck._

**Even the Stars Go Right Over Our Head**

He’s been gone for nearly four full days when Felicity breaks the promise she made to herself.

On the fourth night, John follows her home, insisting she and Thea pack a bag so they can come and stay with him and Lyla until the team finds Oliver, until they’ve brought him back home and neutralized this latest threat.

Her father.

The word is as foreign on her lips as the man’s adopted moniker. He’s the new danger, this returned presence in her life, this name she’s heard before, now linked by blood.

And he’s torturing Oliver.

He’s sent them pictures, videos, a tooth so they could verify his DNA. The first email she had received from him, the first picture of what that monster had done to her… _Oliver_ , it was the first communication of any kind since that she’d had with her father since he walked out all those years ago. It was also the first time she’d ever thought herself capable of murder. She’d probably find the whole thing Shakespearean, if there were time for anything but terror and righteous rage.

She grabs a duffle bag and fills it numbly, trying to move fast and keep her eyes off Oliver’s side of the closet. A couple dresses, a few pairs of shoes, her devices and chargers, underwear, and his favorite shade of lipstick. That’s all she needs. She has to keep working, everything needs to stay as normal as possible. The team needs her now, there’s no time to fall to pieces or melt into puddles.

She makes a mistake when she reaches to the back of his side of the closet. The action forces her face against his suit jackets and she’s overwhelmed, momentarily, by the sensation of him. Because she’s had her face pressed against these coats with his chest warm underneath them, but here on the hangers, all they are is rough and cold and the smell of him to remind her he’s not there.

It knocks her back for a second, but then she pushes them aside, pawing at the very back of the closet until she grabs a hold of familiar green leather, shoving it into her bag before she has the chance to give it a second thought.

“Ready?” John asks rhetorically when she returns downstairs, hoisting her duffle over his shoulder. That’s when she remembers one last thing.

“Wait,” her eyes go wide and so do Thea’s and John’s, but she’s already turning to run back up the stairs to their bedroom.

She tears open Oliver’s sock drawer – because he’s remarkable in so many ways, but in this, he is the  everyman. She knows exactly where the crushed velvet pouch is: in the back, to the right, behind his athletic socks. It’s where she stashes it again every time she pulls it out to admire it.

Because _of course_ she knows. The poor guy had spent three hours in the kitchen on that doomed night making souffles, and while she didn’t begrudge him the effort – the sight of him whipping cream by hand was reward in itself– he had made it so blatantly obvious, what with his serious eyes and adorably nervous grin.

“What’s the occasion?” She had batted her eyelashes and tried to break him even before dinner began but he was so resolved, so focused he didn’t even figure her out.

And then Thea and Laurel had come knocking, and she knew immediately that it was over. The balloon of happiness and disbelief she had floated on all evening deflated as fast as his face and when he turned back to stalk into the kitchen, her heart sank with the souffles.

Felicity had made the promise to herself that night, after they had finished game-planning with the new-and-improved Team Arrow. She’d give him a month back in “Star City” to readjust – to let him propose or tell him that she knew. She told herself she didn’t want to string it out, though the truth was that she was a little worried about re-entry, and how he would handle things. She wasn’t about to let him run, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Life was easy on the road, simple in that colorful little house in the suburbs, and she knew returning to the grayscale troubles of Starling wouldn’t be without its challenges.

The worst part is, she was right. It hadn’t been easy and she was glad that they hadn’t rushed anything, right up until week three, day two – when he was taken. The whole thing feels like an idiotically arbitrary waiting period now that he’s gone. She could have been his fiance, hell, she could have been his wife by now.

She doesn’t look behind her when she shuts the door to their bedroom, but instead says a silent half-goodbye, vowing only to come back here with Oliver, or never again.

 _You could have just told him._ It’s a clanging echo in her head as she descends the stairs and follows John and Thea out the door, worrying the pouch in her coat pocket the whole way to the car.

She wonders why it matters, certainly it wouldn’t be easier having her husband kidnapped now, rather than her boyfriend or fiance or partner. He’s still her everything, it wouldn’t hurt any more or any less. So why? Why does it feel like she’s done something wrong by keeping the secret?

When answer comes to her, it hits her so hard she speaks it aloud, thankfully soft enough that the two in the front seat don’t hear her. Because, of course, it wouldn’t have been for her.

“He’d know.”

* * *

Thea jumps right in to help with a screaming baby Sara the second they walk through the door to the Diggles' apartment, but all Felicity can do is collapse into an armchair, worrying the velvet pouch clenched in her fist. Occasionally she opens the drawstring tie and dips a finger in to make sure it’s still in there. It always is, but it doesn’t make her feel any better.

John finally sits down beside her and eyes her nervous hands until she just sighs and tosses the whole thing to him. He upends the bag into his palm and considers the ring with a slow, sad sigh.

“He was gonna…” She starts the sentence, but there’s no real need to finish it when her throat tightens painfully.

“Talk about a long time coming.” Her friend smiles a little and the answering tug on the corners of her mouth feels foreign.

“I want to…” She has to clear her throat and swipe under her eyes before she can continue.

“I don’t feel like I can put it down,” she tells him honestly, staring at her hands. “But it doesn’t feel right to…”

“Here.” John cuts her off, pulling a chain from under his shirt and unfastening it to slide the dogtags off easily, slipping them into the breast pocket of his coat. Then he holds the chain and ring out to her expectantly.

“John, no. I couldn’t, I can’t,” she babbles, slightly overcome. “Those are yours.”

“They’re Lyla’s actually,” he tells her, meeting her eyes for a brief, serious second because this is about a shared moment, about the two of them and the people they love. “And she’s got mine.”

“I can’t take this,” she protests again, but he’s already shaking his head at her and forcing the silver and velvet back into her hands.

“You won’t need it for long.” It’s his most successful reassurance yet.

Her hands are shaking too hard to refasten the chain once she’s slipped it through the ring, and John saves her once again. He clasps it and slides it easily over her head, letting his hands rest on her shoulders for a moment and waiting until she meets his gaze.

“We’re gonna get him back, Felicity.” It’s as much of a promise as either of them can make, and she knows it’s not much, but she’s grateful. “We’ll get him back and you guys will do this right.”

She works tirelessly for three more days, hacking and worming her way into a madman’s almost-impenetrable network. She doesn’t know if her father’s actually the one behind the tech, but it would line up with the few memories she has of the man before he left. He’s good, but she’s better.

The ring tucked against her chest, between the swell of her breasts, is what keeps her going. When she starts to slump, it’s like the thing catches fire, forcing her on like his warrior spirit is burning through her. She’s not about to start giving up on him now.

Finally, after a week, she gets through. Their villain is too hasty encoding his latest video, and she’s able to glean them an address off the metadata. Once she kicks off the rescue plan, she takes one quick moment to view the video, just to make sure he’s still alive. The shocking sight of him makes her breath catch in her throat, but for the first time in over a week, exhaling it doesn’t feel like plunging a knife into her heart.

They’ve got him.

* * *

Oliver’s in bad shape when they haul him out of the abandoned factory, after a massive cooperative raid by Team Arrow, Team Flash, and the Star City PD, and Felicity cringes when she hears someone mutter something about how “the bastard was keeping him in a cage.” She’s never been happier to see him, but her chest finally tears clean open when she glimpses him on the stretcher and realizes she already can tell the difference between the marks of torture and the injuries he gave himself trying to escape, trying to get back to her and make sure they were safe.

Felicity ignores the pleas of the EMTs that John does his best to corral for a few moments, rushing to him and collapsing under the emotion of the moment. She does her best to hold her weight off of his damaged body, but needs to be as close to him as possible, weeping his name into his matted hair as she cradles his head against her.

She feels more than hears him murmur something against her chest and when she pulls back a little, he says it again. It’s weak and cracked, but it’s her name, and it’s the best sound she’s ever heard.

“Yeah, baby, I’m right here.” She can barely see him through tears that smudge the dirt on his forehead when they fall, but then she feels him tug at the chain around her neck.

The second thing he says is just as soft, but ten times stronger.

“Marry me.”

She wants to revel in the moment, wants to kiss him, but he’s fading out a little and she really needs to let the rescuers step in and keep doing their jobs, based on the way that they’re yelling at her. So before she has to let him go, she makes certain he knows her answer, makes certain he hears her when she presses her lips to his ear.

“Yes.”


End file.
